


bring me to the parched and hungry ground

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fine Art Appreciation, First Time, Gift Swap, M/M, Mutual Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 10:49:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You definitely want to encourage Equius, among other verbs. This stupid gift exchange is just forcing your hand, when you wanted more time to get to know him, figure out who he is when he's not being completely suborned by your worst successful project to date. You don't know enough of his buttons yet to be sure you're pushing the right ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DeludedExtracts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeludedExtracts/gifts).



AC: :33 < *ac slinks into the fancy house and twines around roxy's legs, purring*   
TG: *rolal obligingly sits down bc erry1 knows kitties want laps when they do that*   
AC: :33 < *ac is delighted this purrson is so understanding! she jumps up into the lap and kneads*   
AC: :33 < i have a question fur you! *she says*   
TG: well u came to the right place ive got answers like google up in here xcept im way cuter   
TG: go on hit me w your best shot   
AC: :33 < you're setting up the gift trade for 12th purrig33's, right?   
AC: :33 < sooooo... are you planning on setting up any extra-special purrings?   
TG: purrings = pairings?    
TG: omg nepeta no thats too cute to be allowed   
TG: im gonna have 2 squish the stuffin outta u next time i see u irl   
AC: :33 < h33 h33, furst you'll have to catch me! the mighty huntress is not such easy purrey!   
TG: ur on!!! bsides talkin in person makes it easier to b sure no smartass jerks with supercomputers are gonna be all hackin into PRIVATE SERIOUS BUSINESS like purrings :3   
AC: :33 < *ac lashes her tail in excitement* then catch me if you can!

* * *

"It's too soon," you say, "that's what's wrong with it." You cross your arms over your chest and then realize that's a defensive gesture and make yourself stop. "I'd known Jake for _years_ before I got him anything."

Roxy huffs one of those too-loud sighs that mean _you're a big stupidhead_. "Let's be real here though, _how it went with Jake_ is not exactly a good blueprint for future romantic endeavors for, like, anybody." She looks at you over the top of her game system, brow arched so she looks almost exactly like Rose. "At least you got somebody you like."

"What, you didn't game the system to give yourself Egbert or something?" You would have, in her shoes, you're pretty sure.

"Wow, rude, impugning a lady's honor and implying I rigged the system in any way."

"I'm a heartless villain," you admit. "Who are you stuck with?"

"Fishface the wizard," she says.

"And you can't just get him a wand-shaped vibrator, huh?"

She throws a smuppet at your head. You dodge. "The _last_ thing I'd want to do is encourage him!"

Which, okay, is the opposite of your problem. You definitely want to encourage Equius, among other verbs. This stupid gift exchange is just forcing your hand, when you wanted more time to get to know him, figure out who he is when he's not being completely suborned by your worst successful project to date. You don't know enough of his buttons yet to be sure you're pushing the right ones.

For lack of anything more precisely focused, you zero in on an intersection of two interests you share: robots and horses. (The dude has good taste in hobbies, if nothing else.) You build him a one-tenth scale model of an Arabian stallion—the perfect over-the-top swoon-worthy fantasy horse—capable of tossing its little sculpted head and striking sparks by stamping its tiny steel hooves. The AI is basic, but you figure that's for the best. Nobody needs a tiny robot horse going rogue and trying to take over the world. You are virtually certain that would ruin Christmas.

The party is, like your new planet, a high-velocity collision between human and troll customs. Jane bakes pies and John insists on Christmas trees and Terezi challenges people to duels and Karkat yells at everyone. Okay, that last part isn't a holiday thing. But there it is, this big chaotic gathering of all of you, celebrating the birth of Earth Human Christmas and Twelfth Perigee's Eve's hideous ectobiological offspring. You have rarely felt less like a real earth human.

Roxy disappears when it's time to exchange gifts, which makes you a little suspicious. She set all this up and then she doesn't stick around to watch it unfold? But whatever, at least nobody's trying to festively strangle anybody else anymore.

When you walk over to Equius, he goes, "How did you—?" and then cuts himself off when you hold out your sincerely ironically perfectly wrapped box. "Thank you," he says instead. He unwraps it like he's doing surgery, and you think about being the object of that kind of focused attention, and then you deliberately stop thinking about that.

He lifts your little ponybot out of the box like it's either a precious artifact or a live bomb, and for a second he just _stops_ , looking at it, totally still. "This is exquisite," he says after that little hesitation, and you can actually hear him pronouncing the percent sign. "Your own manufacture?"

"Yeah," you say. "I wasn't sure what to get you, so. Ah." You almost reach for it to show him where the power switch is, but would that be condescending? The dude's not dumb.

He finds the switch just fine without your help, and sets the ponybot down on the table to watch it prance. His face fucking lights up. It's the first time you've ever seen him smile without it looking pained. It's cute, despite the messed-up teeth. Hell, maybe _because_ of the messed-up teeth. ...You have it bad.

After a minute Equius visibly collects himself and opens his sylladex. "I drew your name your name as well," he explains.

"What are the odds," you say.

He grimaces. "I fear now that I may not have matched your efforts."

You shake your head. "Don't worry about it. I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to be a competition. And I want to see what you came up with."

It's a book; you can tell that already before you pull loose the tape on the blue striped paper. A heavy, serious-business book, the kind of thing Rose would call a tome, with one eyebrow arched and the smirk carefully held in reserve. The lettering on the cover is ornate Alternian, embossed into leather whose provenance you probably don't even want to guess at. You crack it open to a random page in the middle just to see what you can expect—you _can_ read Alternian, of course. It was sort of a survival skill. If this is all super dense text, though—

Oh. Damn. The page you've opened to showcases one of the most lovingly rendered pieces of furry pinup art you've ever seen, and you grew up in the wreckage of the internet.

You flip to another page. Another chiseled set of pecs, another plush and inviting rump. There are two options here: either this is an amazing ironic gesture, the illuminated bible of furry porn, or it's a sincere gesture and he's totally into you. Equius has never struck you as the irony type.

He's watching you. "This is some gorgeous work, bro," you say. It's a safe response either way.

"It's one of the finest volumes in my collection," Equius says. "I hoped you would appreciate the artistry." Totally serious. Maybe you _have_ been taking it too slow.

You shut the book automatically when Jake comes bounding over. "What'd you get, then?" he asks, throwing an arm over your shoulder and peering at it.

"Tell you when you're older," you say. You don't know whether you should shrug him off or not. Would he be hurt? Will Equius get the wrong idea if you don't?

"Oh, come on," Jake says. "What sort of fellow keeps things from his best bros?"

One who still isn't sure exactly how to _be_ best bros with his ex, but you don't want to go into that in a big crowded gathering. You show him the cover instead. "Hate to break it to you, but I don't think you read the language."

Jake peers at the angular Alternian letters. "Well, blast," he says. Then he smiles brightly. "You are a man of many talents, though, and no mistake!"

You don't know what to say to that at all. Fortunately, you're saved from further social obligation by the louder of the Captors announcing at top volume that there's going to be a snowball fight outside _right now_ and only losers won't participate. Thank fuck. Sniping chumps with wads of tight-packed gloppy snow is about a thousand times easier than making small talk like things aren't weird as hell.

Later that evening, you get a chance to barricade yourself in your room and devote a little more time to perusing your new reading material. You don't read Alternian as well as you read English, because you might have needed it sometimes but you never had a reason to just sit down and immerse yourself in literature or blog posts or whatever.

So it's slow going. But you're stubbornly determined to read it for the articles, no matter how impressed you are with the intricately shaded, perfectly detailed horse cocks. The text, it turns out, is a lot better suited to the fancy presentation. It sounds like lost verses out of the Song of Solomon or something. The guy you have a crush on thinks that a plush set of dubiously equine haunches ought to be immortalized with with poetry about lush bounty and noble grace.

That's pretty fabulous, really.

Okay, clearly this is Equius making the first move, so now it's up to you to decide how to respond. You think about it for a minute, idly admiring the artist's rendition of a killer set of abs that are in no way obscured by the downy fur over them. The answer, when it comes to you, is obvious and perfect.

You pick up the book and head down to the troll-colonized basement to knock on Equius's door. He seems surprised when he comes to answer it, his eyebrows rising above the rims of his ever-present shades. "Strider," he says. "Did you require assistance?"

You hold up the book. "Can I bother you for expert translation services?" you ask. "I can get the basics, but I'm pretty sure I'm missing stuff." You're sure of no such thing, but it's a damn good reason to get into his room and get him talking sexy to you.

"My apologies," Equius says. He produces a towel from somewhere and wrings it between his hands. "That was thoughtless of me."

"Nah, it's all good," you reassure him. "I get by. But a native speaker is always going to have better command of the tongue, right?"

Equius pats at his brow with the towel. "I should be happy to assist you in exploring its intricacies." He steps back to let you into his room.

It's always weird being in somebody else's space, but it's actually less weird here than usual. Maybe it's the smell of circuitry and machine oil, something you internalized as home. There's even a little robot scrap heap in one corner. And lucky for you there's a nice big couch that's about perfect for the next step in this process.

You take a seat. Equius looks ridiculously nervous when he sits down next to you. It's kind of cute. You hold out the book. "All right, sensei. Teach me of your noble literary tradition."


	2. Chapter 2

Dirk shifts, leaning closer as he studies the open book. "Intense," he murmurs. His breath is warm against your ear—his whole body lowblood-hot where he presses against your side. This whole thing is unbearably intimate; the only furniture you have in your block is better suited to concupiscent relations than intellectual discussion, but Dirk doesn't seem put off in the slightest. You don't know how you've managed to stumble through the whole first chapter when you are so dizzyingly aware of his presence.

Your voice dies in your throat as he reaches out to touch the page. You watch his fingertips skate across the glossy paper, following the fluid lines of the musclebeast's pose. His gloves cover all but the tips of his fingers, and the contrast makes that glimpse of bare brown skin exquisite and tantalizing.

"Go on," he prompts. "What's the text for this one?"

You clear your throat and resume translating. " _I went down to the water to be with my beloved, where the jewel-bright fish swim._ " There is context there he probably doesn't recognize, with the suggestion of a seadweller matesprit—and thus a cross-caste relationship—in the first line reinforced by the mention of jewels in the second. You decide not to stop to explain. " _There among the floating lotus blossoms I laid myself bare._ "

Dirk makes a soft noise in his throat, low and barely voiced. He presses minutely closer as he turns the page. The illustration on this page is a great golden beast, erect and proud, longing in every line of its pose. " _Bring me to the honeyed caverns of my beloved; bring me to the parched and hungry ground. Let milk be mixed with honey and poured out in abundance._ "

Dirk shudders. You recognize the feel of strength held in check, held still. You glance sideways at him through the curtain of your hair and see his tongue—glistening and pink—touch his lip and retreat. "This is what you're into, huh?" he asks. "And you wanted to share it with me?"

Your thinkpan stutters like a mechanism whose gears have just slipped. _Give him something special_ , Nepeta urged you. _His meowrail says he likes hoofbeasts! Get him one of those books of paw-etry you like._

You have been thoroughly set up.

"I apologize if that was... unwelcome," you say, because it always is, and you should have known better. "I realize now it is very likely to be what your, ah, dancestor calls _too much information_." Only the greatest effort of will keeps you from disclaiming further; your interests are noble and you will not be ashamed of them, no matter how much your acquaintances misunderstand. 

Dirk shakes his head. He hasn't pulled away. "I didn't say that. Just wanted to be sure we're on the same metaphorical page." His fingers practically caress the image, the proud spine, the ample buttocks. "You up for translating more?"

Oh. You wet your lips. "Of hor—course." Your hand trembles when you reach to turn the page, though, and you pause; ruining your own possessions is bad enough, but ruining a gift would be unconscionable. Dirk turns the page for you, and oh goodness. Of all the fragments to come up now.

" _I wish I were the sopor that soothes you, that I might gentle you through the day; I wish I were the water that bathes you, that I might know the contours of your flesh_." This is poetry of the precelestial period, declarations written between nobles to confess their flushed passion. The custom has faded over the ages, until only caliginous battle-lyrics are still composed regularly, but there's something humbling about the intimate vulnerability of these confessions. " _Were I the sickle at your belt, I would dance at your command; were I the ground beneath your feet, I would rejoice at your tread_." 

"Gorgeous," Dirk says.

You feel nearly as proud as if it were your own work. It's so rewarding to be able to share this with someone who is refined enough to appreciate it. "It is."

"Mm? Oh, yeah. The poetry's good, too."

Blood rushes to your cheeks and you look up at him sharply. Some part of you still expects him not to be sincere. You can't read his eyes through the darkness of his lenses, and his mouth is an impassive line.

He lifts his hand from the page, slides his fingers into your hair, and pulls you into a kiss.

He doesn't hesitate, and that is the only way this kiss resembles your first. His mouth is soft and warm, his tongue slick. He's so gentle that it takes a moment before you really grasp the extent of his hunger—at first you concentrate on yielding, trying to stay relaxed enough that you won't hurt him. When you realize that he's pressing slowly but steadily harder, kissing you more fiercely and coming to no harm, you make a quite involuntary sound in your throat.

Dirk pulls back, his lips flushed but not bruised, not bloodied. "Shit. Was that okay?" You wince at the profanity and his shoulders slump. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I swear I wouldn't have done that if I didn't think you'd be into it. I mean, I know I come on too strong." You blink. He's barely pausing for breath between statements. "So if you want to just pretend like this never happened and go back to platonic robot enthusiasm or whatever, that's cool, or if, um, you'd rather be left alone..." His voice trails off uncertainly and your heart twinges. You admired him already, of course, but you had never seen him vulnerable enough to truly inspire pity.

"You came here to try to seduce me?" you say, because the idea of being pursued is still so novel it's difficult to grasp.

"You gave me an illustrated book of alien erotic poetry," he says. "I thought you were trying to seduce _me_."

"It's high art," you insist automatically. "Perfection of form as a reflection of noble spirit, of, of, fiddlesticks." This isn't at all what you want to say. "Do you suppose you could still be seduced?"

His lips twitch. "Give it a try."

You take off your glasses, captchalogue them, make yourself look at him straight on. His teeth catch his lower lip. You've never seen him without his angular shades—as though he's as sensitive to the light as you are—and perhaps that means he knows how vulnerable this makes you.

"May I?" you ask, reaching for his. He swallows hard and nods once. Yes, he understands. You are as careful as you know how to be, lifting his shades away.

You were prepared for the human white sclera, but his irises take you by surprise; subconsciously you were expecting a deep blue, perhaps even violet. Instead they're bright, alien gold, the color of honey, the color of bare wire in need of a connection.

You kiss him, completing the circuit, and they flutter closed. Sweeps of practice make you careful and controlled, as delicate as you have ever been with your robotics, and it works; Dirk melts slowly against you. You're vaguely aware of him setting the book aside and then he's reaching for you again, threading his fingers into your hair. In return you slip an arm around his waist. You aren't sure if you pull at all or if you simply follow his initiative, but he swings a leg over your lap to straddle you, and you're holding him there, oh. The muscles of his back are two taut cables flanking the central column of his spine. You dare to reach beneath his shirt to feel that better and he arches his back, rubbing against you like a purrbeast. His mouth tastes of warm animal strangeness. He's still unharmed.

"It seems to me," you say, as he kisses you between words, "that you're definitely the one doing the seducing."

He laughs, breath ghosting across your cheek. "Let's call it mutual, then." His fingertips find your hornbeds, tracing the circumference.

You groan, remember what happened the last time you made a nonspecific sound, and shape the noise into a low, half-growling "Yes."

"Oh, _wow_ ," he says, and strokes more slowly, more roughly. You shudder in his hands. And then— "Like a proud stallion is my beloved," he murmurs. "His noble form, his tossing mane."

For a moment you can scarcely breathe. "A warrior's grace has my beloved," you answer as soon as you can pull your wits together. "His flashing eyes, his callused hands."

Dirk kisses you again. You're forgetting to be cautious, forgetting to hold back, and it doesn't matter. You don't even realize how much you've let your control slip until you hear cloth tearing.

He pulls back laughing, looking down at the way his shirt hangs askew. 

"Oh goodness, I apologize," you say, even though he doesn't seem upset. The loss of control is still unseemly. 

"Hey, I'm flattered," he says. "It's not every day someone wants me enough to literally rip my clothes off." He tears the damaged garment off the rest of the way, and his casual display of strength thrills you further. He's built very much like a musclebeast, with only one set of pectorals, but those clearly and proudly defined. He even has nipples, and when you touch them, he shivers. "You like what you see, huh?"

"Very much so," you say. Dirk leans back, bracing his hands on your thighs and arching forward into your hands, displaying himself shamelessly. It's an invitation to touch, and you take it, tracing his smooth skin and strange musculature with both hands. When you follow the gentle valley between the muscles of his abdomen, something shifts visibly beneath the fabric of his jeans.

Your thinkpan threatens to stall again. That's his _bulge_ , oh goodness. You can't bring yourself to move. He finds you desirable, enjoys your touch—what do you _do_? Is it too soon to go further? You have no idea how human courtship works, or what you should expect.

"Continue," you say when you can find your voice, and then realize that his nobility deserves better, and add, "Please." Dirk moves as if to take off his gloves next, and an impulse you haven't fully examined prompts you to say, "Wait. Can you—I would prefer that you leave those on."

Dirk smiles, a sly twist of his mouth. "Kinky," he says, and he makes that sound like a thing he approves of. He slides out of your lap and you miss his warmth immediately, but you can't regret it because he's kicking off his shoes and unbuttoning his jeans. He pushes them down, steps out of them, and again you can't help but stare. His bulge, too, is like a musclebeast's, firm and blunt and erect. He curls a still-gloved hand around it when he sees you staring and strokes it languidly. "You want a closer look?"

"Yes," you say, because there's nobody to hear it but him, nobody to know that your appreciation has gone far beyond the aesthetic. He steps up to the edge of the couch, still touching himself, and you watch. His bulge has no proper sheath, but there's a loose flap of skin that hides the crown when he doesn't draw it back. At the base of the shaft his testicles hang in their delicately furred pouch, white hair curled tight and wiry.

You reach out carefully and Dirk pulls his hand back to cradle the base of his shaft, leaving the rest exposed to your touch. You can feel the sweat gathering on your brow with the effort of concentrating as you drag your fingertips gently over the ridge where crown meets shaft. Dirk makes a soft, barely-voiced noise, thrusting toward your touch.

"Beautiful," you tell him, and his breath hitches. You look up. His mouth is stoic but his eyes give him away: your appreciation stuns him. Your heart surrenders. He is so strange and noble, and so lonely, and you know that plight so well.

He shakes himself, his confident mask sliding back into place. "I'm flattered, and all, but I don't want to be the only one doing show and tell here. Lemme see what you've got, stallion."

Goodness. "Of course," you say. You fumble your shirt off without tearing it too badly in the process, and then you have to stand to unfasten your shorts. You aren't too self-conscious until you let them fall, and then you're standing in your briefs and your stockings and Dirk makes a noise like you've just struck him.

"Holy _shit_ , dude," he says, with such reverence in his voice that you can't even be too distraught at his language. You slip your fingers under the band of one stocking to push it down and Dirk stops you with a hand on your wrist. "No, leave those on."

You let go and he _sinks to his knees_ in front of you, leaning in and nuzzling the inside of your thigh. Your bulge throbs. How can he possibly—he pushes you back to sit on the couch again, settling himself between your knees, and your bulge is one hot pulse of helpless need.

"These look so fucking good," he says, lifting one of your legs to hook it over his shoulder. You think you understand his stunned expression now; you have no idea what to do with his desire except yield to it. You clench your hands in the upholstery and tremble as he runs his hands over your calves, as he presses his lips to the inside of your knee. You do your best to control yourself, to keep your sheath from dilating, but it's not easy when you're trying at the same time to relax—

You slip, eventually, your control escaping you for just long enough that your bulge unsheaths in a ripple of physical relief and utter mortification. Your briefs tear, and when you glance at his face you see shock in his eyes. 

"Oh fiddlesticks, I apologize," you say, groping desperately for a towel. "That was unforgivably uncouth, and I assure you I didn't intend to, ah." You trail off as Dirk reaches for you, as he touches your writhing bulge with exploratory fingertips. It's very much the same touch as when he traced the lines of the musclebeast paintings.

Which is absurd, when you know that you have nothing to offer so elegant as the paintings, as elegant as Dirk's own form, but when you stammer something of the sort he looks up at you with one skeptically arched brow. "Remind me to find you some doujinshi sometime," he says. "In earth erotic art tradition, this—" he twines his fingers with the questing tip of your bulge— "is the stuff of unfulfilled fantasy."

Your bulge squeezes his fingertips, and you stifle a groan. He teases you, toying with your length, and you wonder if he could possibly have felt this overwhelmed when you touched him. "Please," you say, throwing yourself on his mercy, and then you aren't even sure what you're asking for.

"Yeah," he says, as if he knows despite your uncertainty. He pulls free of your needy grip and climbs up onto the couch with you, pushing you backward; it's such a rare and precious thing to have anyone physically take charge of you that you don't even try to resist, letting him press you down along the length of the couch and stretch out on top of you.

His bulge slides against yours and that's all the invitation your body needs: your bulge wraps around him and pulses, squeezes slowly. "God, _yes_ ," Dirk says, "do that, it's amazing," and he kisses you before you can scrape your thoughts together enough for an answer.

You lose yourself in the kiss, in the rhythm of your bulges sliding together, in the sleek musculature of his back and buttocks and thighs under your hands. This is the feeling the ancient poets tried to capture: the openness that is not weakness, but relief; the sweetness that quenches a thirst in your heart. You let that feeling overwhelm you, and here, at last, in this moment, you are content.

**Author's Note:**

> The fragments of poetry that Equius translates were inspired by/adapted from [the ancient Egyptian romantic/erotic poetry quoted in this post](http://allthingswildlyconsidered.blogspot.com/2010/09/i-am-not-beside-you-where-will-set-your.html). mmmm, sensual traditions.


End file.
